At the heart of his being he did not belong
and the sounds which he made were neither poetry nor song​
Bodies

​

​

The spring evening is cool and peaceful.
Beneath a canopy of cherry blossom
a group of artists relax.

One strums a guitar,
the others are talking quietly.
Each asserts a fragile independence.

Drunk and inquisitive,
a stranger stops to stare.
He desires to share in their sharing.

Uninvited, he sits down.
He offers to buy them a drink.
He proffers a handful of banknotes.

Silently rejected, he becomes abusive.
Don't preach to me!   he snarls,
You're not men!

I could put you through that window!
I've seen piles of bodies!
I've been a mercenary!

But as he casts his wild eyes down
he sees a dead thing on the ground
and from out its eyes down to its chin

the worms crawl out, the worms crawled in.
Then to the group his silence says
Shall I be so when I am dead?

You will indeed

Their silence says
You will be so when you are dead